The caterers hustle around as they arrange mini quiches on a tray. Tugging on a pair of white catering gloves, I slip into the kitchen without any notice. As one tray finishes, I grab it before another staff member enters. I stroll away from the party and into the empty dining room.
Pulling out a vile of peanut oil from my pocket, I pipe out several drops on the top of each glistening quiche before heading out.
The sun warms my face. Grass and something fruity linger in the air, tinged with the buttery sweetness from cake frosting. There’s a sea of pink and blue outfits, decorations, and a garish three-tier cake that’s taller than any wedding cake I’ve seen in person. Granted, I haven’t been to many weddings. Working random jobs throughout my twenties to put my siblings through school meant I had notime for friends after high school. It wasn’t until after Tessa dropped out that I knew I couldn’t make ends meet anymore on my own. I sold half my Bitcoin and became an overnight millionaire.
Tessa’s always been a computer whiz, but she learned to hack not long after I made my fortune. I think between my money and seeing where Tuck’s future was heading, she wanted to catch up. She’s never really explained why she started hacking into billionaires’ accounts and playing Robin Hood, but I respect her privacy. And her skills.
I guess one upside is not having to attend gender reveals. I can’t believe this entire party is to let the world know what genitals the McArthur’s grandchild has. Gender reveals are so fucking weird.
My eyes land on a curtain of blond hair being gently tossed in the breeze. Daphne’s sapphire dress hugs her luscious curves, her ass straining the fabric.
Bite me.
Oh, I know exactly where I’d like to bite first.
“What are these?” A demanding voice drills into my ear.
“Quiche,” I answer with a fake smile I’d perfected while working retail.
With a satisfied“hmph,”Senator Troy plucks one from the tray and takes a cocktail napkin.
I need to get these to McArthur before they disappear. I beeline towards the opposite end of the party, dodging people, glancing curiously at my tray before stopping in front of him and Judge Menendez. “Quiche?” I offer up the tray. Both men look at the food and pluck a quiche from the tray before grabbing napkins.
“But George knows not to put it on the books. Yacht trips aren’t something I think need to be disclosed,” McArthur says.
“Well, I’m not your counsel,” the judge says. “But I agree with the sentiment.”
I circle the yard to distribute quiche bites that disappear within a minute. As Daphne plucks the last one from the tray, her eyes check me for a lingering moment.
Does she recognize me?
But she turns back to Senator Mump’s daughter as they continue chatting about some reality TV show.
My tray is empty, and I have one more thing to stage before I disappear. I drop off the empty tray in the kitchen to be filled again.
I head back upstairs and into the Congressman’s study.
The mahogany desk glistens in the afternoon sunlight, streaking through the sheer mossy curtains. Pristine and ancient—a work of art undeserving of the son-of-a-bitch.Did his pedo-ring friends pay for his desk too, or just his silence?
Reaching behind me, I untuck my catering shirt and tug out the papers pressed to my back.
Peeling open the Ziploc bag, I carefully pull out the printed Bradshaw Bill and place it on the desk. The only alteration is the phrase, “kill the bill,” scribbled in threatening-looking red Sharpie. Jamming the empty bag into my pocket, I pull out the peanut oil.
“Help!” Someone calls from outside.
Shit, I need to hurry.
I douse the bill in oil before slipping the container back in my pocket.
And finally, the vial of gunpowder. I line black powder across the desk and sprinkle some on top of the bill—my signature.
Footsteps pound upstairs towards the master ensuite. A minute later, they dart back downstairs. Someone grabbed the EpiPen.
I linger a few seconds before leaving. Everyone is crowded around outside, even the Secret Service, who were previously stationed by the front door. It’s practically a gift. Easier than the escape I originally planned, jumping the backyard fence.
Taking my opportunity, I run to my car and drive the hell out of there.
Twenty minutes later, after taking winding back roads and some dirt roads, the car bumps over goat tracks and onto someone’s farm.
